REFLECTIONS OF A CHENNAI VASI It’s five in the morning on a nippy January day. An unusual drop in temperature does not deter the walkers on Marina Beach. It is still Madras at this time of the day, still the city of my childhood, and if I close my eyes for a minute, nothing exists between the sand, the sea and me. Dawn has already broken, and as the night’s dark skies dissolve into silver, and a tremulous sun gathers strength for its usual vigorous passage across these southern skies, I see the walkers strung out across the sands: the Gujarati lady, unselfconscious in a violent yellow sari and walking shoes, the self-important businessman more intent on his mobile communication device than his prescribed exercise, and the little fisher boys who run the length of the Marina, their voices full of laughter. This morning, the more recent statues on the Marina remain a blur, so it is easy to pretend they are not there, and that it is still Madras as it once was, when there was only Gandhiji continuing forever on his lonely post by the quiet seaside. There was no tiled pavement in those days, just the jagged sidewalk broken by pale yellow and burnt pink
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stone. You had to be careful not to step on the cracks in case someone you loved suddenly died. And then you had to skip down to the beach below to smell the salty sea spray. The sands were whiter then. If you looked back, you could see the sunlight bounce off the tall columns of the police headquarters and the statue of the lone policeman in his ludicrous khaki shorts and his preposterously tall hat standing to perennial attention. In the evenings, the balloon man would come, and along with him the man with the small handcart selling thenga-manga-pattani sundal, which we were of course not allowed to eat; but he would always hover temptingly around us, twisting old newspapers adeptly into conical containers. These things were our Madras. Before the swell of morning walkers increases, one can easily imagine that the Marina is still the grand promenade dreamt up and built by Governor Grant Duff in 1884 to rival the best of those in Europe. Later, in the early decades of the twentieth century, the fires of freedom were set ablaze on it as hundreds of people thronged the beach to hear the passionate speeches of Bal Gangadhar Tilak and Bipin Chandra Pal against British rule. Gandhiji’s Salt Satyagraha, paralleled by the Vedaranyam march in south India, had its echoes in Madras when the satyagrahis broke salt on the Marina. Today, this road is one of the few stretches that stands testimony to the continuity of history, despite the creeping kitsch of stainless steel railings and obtruding statues. There is much in the Chennai (the name by which the
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city has been known since 1996) of today that is still Madras. Orhan Pamuk, writing on Istanbul, his home of more than half a century, speaks of the spirit of that city and its stabbing beauty, its ‘huzun’—a kind of communal melancholy and ‘a way of looking at life that implicates us all…a state of mind that is ultimately as life-affirming as it is negating’. In recognizing this he pays homage to the splendours of an older civilization, the ruins and remains of which are visible everywhere in the city, overlaid though they are by a more dismal and confused modernity. Similarly, in Chennai, though there are no visible ruins, the spirit of old Madras leaps out of unexpected corners. It hovers in the smoke-filled mornings the day before Pongal, the festival of abundance, when the sun moves to the northern hemisphere and people filled with the resolve of new beginnings burn old rubbish in their houses; it exists in the still thriving kilijosiyam or soothsayer parrots who, with clipped wings and starved bodies, are trained at the behest of their owners to pick cards that will tell your fortune; you can see it in the eyes of young girls brightened by kohl or kan mai, their dark plaits thickly woven with fragrant jasmine strands. It rises from hot, freshly ground ‘degree coffee’ (an import from Kumbakonam) in roadside tea stalls, made with expert hand movements that draw the attention of passers-by. The echoes of old Madras also persist in the alleyways and streets of extended neighbourhoods, in small white houses with green louvered window shutters, and roofs ablaze with climbing red bougainvillea, hidden away behind ungainly concrete and steel buildings.
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The best cricket is still played in historic Chepauk Stadium, where legendary players beginning with the great M. J. Gopalan once entranced crowds of frenetic cricket fans. Many of us have memories of afternoons spent in the pavilion, eating buffet lunches and watching the exploits of the men in white; most memorably the magnificent Garfield Sobers’ smashing 95 runs on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion. Our real hero, though, was the dashing Nawab of Pataudi, whose elegant strokes we applauded with delight. In December, the city’s great traditions of art and music come alive, a tradition that began in the early twentieth century. From the august Music Academy to the more modest thatched roof halls, every year, both locals and outsiders, including non-resident Indians, get their fill of classical dance and music grounded in traditions that are centuries old. Along with symposiums discussing the intricacies of talam and tani avartanai— the rhythmic beat and the extended solos of expert musicians, connoisseurs savour a range of tiffin—medhu vadai and masala dosai being popular favourites. The mamis, with their diamond nose rings and silk saris, for once abandon their homes and the ubiquitous Tamil serials on television to savour the delights of the season, trading gossip as well as, in a more serious vein, discussing the poetry of Andal, the Vaishnavite woman saint, as expressed through Tiruppavai and critiquing the Bharatanatyam performances on display. Growing up in the sixties and seventies, going to ‘town’ to find bargains in the wholesale markets was a
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regular weekend activity for those of us who lived in South Madras. Finding unexpected treasures in the bookstalls of the now extinct Moore Market was one of the chief delights of a Saturday afternoon. Adjacent to Moore Market was Central Station, the pivotal point of travel of the city, from which we would make our annual holiday journey to the hills to escape the city’s stifling summer. Beyond Central Station, in historic George Town (originally known as Black Town) with its maze of streets and localities, every neighbourhood remains a testament to the advent and contributions of various visitors and settlers in the city. Armenian Street, Mint Street, Coral Merchant Street, Sowcarpet and Popham’s Broadway—the names conjure up the stories and images of travellers stumbling on to Madras’s shores from as far away as Armenia and as close by as Gujarat and Rajasthan. They traded their wares and skills and found a warmth and friendliness among the local people that led many of them to settle here. George Town is also where the city’s first commercial establishments took root. It is possible for the discerning visitor to recognize that there are spaces and buildings in George Town that retain some of their original character; in the crumbling facade of buildings and in the charm of old street houses there is an unexpected poignancy. This was really once meant to be the heart of the city, yet today it seems to stand at the edge of the city’s consciousness. Further north are Perambur, Vyasarpadi, Tondiarpet, Ennore and Tiruvottiyur, with their
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congested roads and railway settlements, gateways to the areas of darkness in North Madras. In these areas, the grime from factory smoke blackens the walls of dilapidated houses. Children with matted hair forage in piles of rubbish for food and other precious finds. Their parents toil for meagre daily wages in the wholesale markets, the industrial estates, the mills and small factories that crowd the landscape in this part of the city. This is also Madras, and yet it is another country.
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